


heavy as the setting sun

by getmean



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Flirting, Getting Together, House Party, M/M, make outs!, okay yes jean is an urban outfitters employee because it just feels CORRECT, watch and see how many times eren can put his foot in his mouth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 07:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17997968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getmean/pseuds/getmean
Summary: So it all begins with a house party, one too many beers, and Eren’s near-obsessive half-crush on that one Urban Outfitters employee that looks like he’s always smelling somethingbad.





	heavy as the setting sun

**Author's Note:**

> so this is a commission for @hijikata-han over on tumblr! hope you love it!! :~)

So it all begins with a house party, one too many beers, and Eren’s near-obsessive half-crush on that one Urban Outfitters employee that looks like he’s always smelling something _bad_.

Or, okay. Rewind. It all begins with Eren tagging along with Mikasa to a party; dragging his ass through the bitterly cold January night because he doesn’t want her to go alone. Mikasa, of course, is positively fuming about it; he can feel the cold, silent waves of annoyance rolling off her like it’s something physical. Whatever, Armin calls it white-knighting, Eren calls it being a good big brother. Either way, he’s here; not wearing enough clothing, and glancing suspiciously around as they tramp through the streets.

Mikasa, who’s been walking about two feet in front of him since they’d left the house, as if that’d deter him, turns and says, “It’s almost like following me to the same uni wasn’t enough.” There’s no bite to her voice, really. Eren tries not to take the bait; he knows she knows his weaknesses, and exactly how to escalate or de-escalate a situation. He buries his face into the collar of his ineffectual denim jacket, and glares at her.

“I applied first.” He retorts. De-escalate. They’re grownups, right? 

“I got higher grades.” She replies, and gets right back to marching away from him. Eren snorts, and hurries to keep pace with her.

“No need for the low blows.” He says, catching up with her and knocking his shoulder to hers. The look she levels him with is devastating, and he grins, showing all his teeth. “What, you can look out for me but I can’t look out for you?”

Mikasa ignores that, one spidery hand emerging from the pocket of her far-superior coat to tug her omnipresent scarf further up over her face. The apples of her cheeks are red with the cold, as is her nose, and Eren is sure that if his skin was lighter he’d be faring just the same. It’s the type of cold night where the air gets caught in your lungs with the shock of it, and Eren feels chilled to the bone no matter how quick he may be walking. The street’s busy; people commuting home from work, lighting up the two of them in the beams of their headlights as they drive by. Eren wonders what kind of sight him and Mikasa make; hunched and chilly, walking fast through streets they definitely look completely out of place in. Her charity shop coat with the patched seam. His unruly head of hair and thin t-shirt, thin jacket. 

“What’re you doing going to a party around here anyway?” He asks, tucking his icy hands into his armpits in a vain attempt to warm them up. They’re venturing into what Eren likes to call the _bad part of town_ , which of course is the good part of town to pretty much every other person in the world. Being this far from his own postcode stresses him out as it is, without the added anxiety of _rich people_. He feels supremely uncomfortable, supremely out of place. “Shit, you don’t even like parties. What gives?”

“Just because you’re tagging along doesn’t mean that’s your business.” She murmurs, throwing a hand out to catch across Eren’s chest as they move to cross the road. Like he’s a toddler, like he’d wander into traffic. Eren rolls his eyes, but doesn’t brush her off.

“Why didn’t we take the tube?” He whines, the two of them darting across the wide road in a breathless rush, their shadows thrown long and gangly across the road by approaching car headlights. He catches the ghost of a grin behind Mikasa’s scarf as they make it back to the pavement.

“You’re too broke.” She mutters, and the grin stretches as Eren speeds up to knock his elbow into hers in retaliation.

————

They find themselves in those windy little streets of identical houses that Eren finds so scary about the more affluent parts of London. White pillared fronts of houses after white pillared fronts of houses. Mikasa is walking slower now, reading the house numbers on those pillars, and Eren drags his feet, feeling decidedly sulky about this house party.

“How’d you know about this party anyway?” He asks, and he doesn’t have to voice the unsaid words in the back of his throat. Mikasa knows very well that this sort of place is not normally their scene, and why Eren would be so curious about it. Eren glances up into the shadowy porch of one of the passing houses. This place is on another level of absurd. 

“Girl in my kickboxing class knows the guy throwing it.” She replies, stopping in the street to draw her battered old phone from her pocket. Eren watches her face in the light of it, lit from below and very serious. “C’mon, it’s a street over.”

They hear the party before they see it; loud voices in the street, and the distant thudding of drum and bass. Eren can see silhouettes of people against the big bay windows as they approach, the two of them out of place and freezing cold and unsure. The steps up to the front door are jammed with people, most sitting huddled together and smoking, talking in that impassioned way drunk people do. Eren can smell weed, cigarette smoke, a dozen different perfumes and colognes. There’s a couple practically sitting in each other’s laps on the steps, making out like they’re the only ones around, and Eren and Mikasa skirt them as they make their way to the door. All the while, Eren tries hard to picture just what kind of guy is their age and can afford to have someone throwing up on a house like _this_. He’s sure he’ll never have enough money in his entire life to even rent the place, let alone buy it outright. The proximity to wealth is a little astounding. 

It’s a ground floor studio, and Eren spares just half a thought for the neighbours upstairs as they step inside and are met with a wall of bodies and sound, spilling out of the flat and into the hallway. Beyond the doorway, Eren can see a sea of heads, and he cranes his neck to try and spot a path through.

“Who is this guy?” He asks, raising his voice over the music. Mikasa is already snaking her way into the party; Eren grabs the back of her coat and follows.

“Dunno.” She says, utterly disinterested as her eyes scan the room. The knot of people at the front door was so much that stepping into the flat itself gave the impression of a quieter party, despite the amount of people. It’s easier to walk, and Eren lets go of Mikasa’s coat once he’s sure he’s not gonna lose her.

A tiny blonde girl intervenes, at this point, and Mikasa barely has time to press her coat into Eren’s unsuspecting arms before the two of them melt away into the crowd of people. Eren stands alone for a second, struck dumb as his brain works to catch up with the situation. Someone knocks hard into his side, catching him off balance, and he re-orients. Mikasa is nowhere to be seen in the dark room, the frenetic lighting from whatever system the guy has rigged up keeping everyone a swirling, faceless mass of bodies. The music is so loud Eren can feel it in his chest, and he gulps down a huge lungful of smoky air before turning in the vague direction he assumes the kitchen to be, Mikasa’s coat still clutched in his hands. 

So like. Okay, maybe Eren is beginning to realise why you don’t tag along with someone to a party where you don’t know anybody, when that person is quite obviously on a _date_. Shit, sometimes he swore Mikasa didn’t tell him things like this on purpose. She knows very well he only learns things one way, and that was the hard way. Regret is curdling heavy in his stomach; he grabs a beer from the cooler on the countertop, but doesn’t linger. The kitchen in this guy’s place has that strange energy that kitchens always have at noisy house parties: more sedate, quieter. A little refuge from the chaos of the main room. Several eyes watch him wander away, and Eren supposes if he was a different person he’d be bothered by it.

Luckily, it takes a little more than a couple rich assholes eyeing up his blatant beer-thievery to make Eren feel out of place. He wishes he’d grabbed two at once, but figures it’ll at least be fun to go back in there and take another, just to see their reactions. 

Eren wanders. The apartment is pretty big for London sizes, but pretty small for everywhere else. The main room is really not his style; Eren doesn’t think he’s danced in years, if ever, unless heavily under the influence of _something_ , but sadly all he has is a beer that’s sweating condensation from the heat of the room. He can smell weed, but can’t locate it. Can tell who’s doing coke or molly and who isn’t, but being completely fucked out with his jaw swinging isn’t really his idea of a great time, so he doesn’t even attempt to follow up on it. He grabs another beer, and bares his teeth at the guys in the kitchen in an approximation of a smile as he does so. Makes sure to lean his hip up against the counter and roll himself a messy cigarette before he leaves, letting tobacco flutter down and mess up the oddly pristine countertops. The whole place has that kind of bougie quasi-minimalist thing which everyone in London with too much money and half a BA in Business Studies is doing currently, and Eren can’t stand it. If he sees one more what-might-be-a-vase-or-maybe-a-carafe standing around, he’s sure he’s gonna break it.

He glances up at the scene in front of him; that sea of heads all awash under the bright, neon glow of some cleverly stashed away lighting system. Chaos, and the part of him that is sliding mellow under the press of the beers takes a little kick of joy in it. He feels free, suddenly, and unfettered in the knowledge that nobody here even knows his name. The concept has his grin stretching, but that drops as his glancing around the room sets his gaze on a figure that is standing still and searching just like him.

There’s a flash of vague recognition as Eren takes him in; the tall, sharp figure he cuts through the absolute cacophony of light. The lights change, then, growing dimmer, lower, and that vague recognition sticks, and stays. _Oh._ The straight set of his shoulders. The long, aquiline nose. Of course Eren recognises him, he’s only been lurking in that one particular Urban Outfitters for six months nursing a crush on the very same guy. The sheer coincidence that they would end up together at the same house party is staggering; Eren clutches his beer as he works through whether to send a prayer of thanks or a curse up to whatever god is looking over him in matters of the heart. Or dick, possibly, in this instance. He’s been going into the damn store for half a year pretending he can afford the clothes just to moon over the guy, who seems as unfriendly as the job description seemingly requires in that place. 

Eren realises he’s staring too late, when the guy’s gaze slides in his direction, and pulls up short. His brows furrow, but Eren finds he doesn’t have the sense to look away. He lets himself be pinned by this stranger’s gaze, like a brown-eyed dart from across all the space and bodies separating him. The low, red light of the room picks out his features in sharp relief; those high, sharp arches of his cheekbones, the subtly amused twist of his mouth. There’s something thrilling in it, to let himself be looked at so thoroughly, so shamelessly. Like he’s been caught, pulled into some invisible magnetic field he can’t quite shake himself from, and isn’t sure if he’d want to anyway. 

It’s almost disappointing, then, as the guy turns away, and Eren feels himself go slack as he’s released from the heady feeling of his attention. It turns him listless into the arms of the party; wandering on the outskirts with his empty beer bottle clutched in his hand as his mind ticks over that odd, charged encounter. Jesus, he’s flushed all the way up to his ears, and that isn’t the beer or the press of bodies around him. No, that gaze. Piercing him through like there wasn’t a crowd of people between them.

Midnight finds Eren bumming around outside on the narrow patio he’s been smoking on all night. He has his elbows up on the railing, looking out over the whole lit-up swathe of London as he smokes a slow cigarette, and lets the bass from the music inside reverberate up through his feet and into his bones. He’s drunk, a near-empty bottle of beer dangling from his fingers, and another sitting patient at his feet. Eren has been mooching around outside for the best part of an hour; fingers frozen to the bone, but the rest of him relatively warm with the beers inside him and Mikasa’s coat squeezed on under his own jacket. His cigarette flares as he takes a drag, and then he jumps as the patio doors slide open behind him with a bang. Music tumbles out, shockingly loud in it suddenness, and then it’s muffled again as the door slides shut.

Eren turns, and finds whatever remark he’d been readying dying on his lips as he comes face to face with the guy from before. All six feet something of him; clean cut and very handsome in the sporadic light through the patio doors. Eren leans back against the railing, a hazy smile stretching across his face as he watches the guy’s eyes flick over him, head to toe. It’s that same attention as before; hawklike, heavy through the guy’s glasses. The lights inside bounce off the silver hoop through his long, Roman nose, and the matching one threaded through his earlobe. Eren sinks his teeth into his lower lip; teasing, drunk. 

Obviously he’d felt that same dart of attraction that Eren had. The knowledge of it is heady, striking low in his gut. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” The guy asks, and Eren laughs, putting all the weight on his elbows as he slouches, backing up against the railing. The patio is narrow, a little too small for the two of them standing parallel, but Eren decides he likes it. 

“Maybe.” He murmurs, and he knows the guy is playing slick and kinda corny, but he’s just drunk enough and the guy is just good looking enough that he plays along too. He juts his hip out, and makes a real show of taking a drag from his cigarette before he half turns away to ash onto the street below. _Maybe_ , ha. Like he hasn’t been near-stalking him at his stupid retail job since the summer. “What’s your name?”

The guy seems to consider it; tipping his head just slightly to the side as he sizes Eren up. The gesture makes his glasses flash in the light from inside; rendering him oddly expressionless in the split second before he grins, and says, “It’s Jean.” 

“Eren.” He offers, and flicks his cigarette butt away from himself in a shower of embers, down down down into the dark street beneath their feet. Jean watches it go, a curious smile pulling at his mouth. “So, do you know me from somewhere?” He asks, feeling bold, and Jean’s gaze slides back to him, that smile widening.

“I don’t think so.” He says, and his eyes track down over Eren again in a way that makes him almost self conscious, before he shakes that free. Sure, the guy’s shoes probably cost more than every item he’s wearing, but so what? He’s still out here on this freezing cold balcony, talking to Eren and not some other rich fuck from inside. 

“Wanna take a picture?” He bites out, as Jean’s gaze lingers on the frayed collar of his jacket. There’s no venom in his voice, not really, and he grins as Jean laughs, completely unperturbed by it. 

“Maybe later.” He says, that infuriatingly smug little smile still twisting his mouth. Eren narrows his eyes, smile stretching. 

“What brings you here?” He asks, eyes following Jean as he shifts, crossing close enough to Eren as he moves to lean against the railing that he can smell his cologne. Something spicy, and warm. Expensive. Eren finds himself following it, swaying slightly on his feet as he turns to prop his hip against the wrought iron railing. “Do you know our esteemed host?”

Jean snorts, and Eren’s eyes follow the quick, sure movements of his hands as he rolls himself a cigarette before popping it in his mouth, and lighting it. “Do you?” He asks, muffled around his cigarette, and he draws it away with a cough that he covers with his wrist, ash fluttering onto the sleeve of his dark jacket. Eren grins.

“No I don’t, thank fuck.” He says, and Jean’s brows raise comically high, a genuine smile breaking out on his face as he laughs. 

“Yeah?” He asks, amused, and Eren’s grin stretches, pleased to have cracked through that aloof, ‘smooth’ persona he was trying. 

“Yeah,” He replies, and digs for his own pouch of tobacco as he talks, “Like I’d wanna know the guy who lives and _pays_ for this fuckin’ place, shit.” He pauses to lick the paper, before sticking it in his mouth and continuing. “I mean, what is it with rich people and having no fuckin’ taste?” He holds a hand out; Jean is grinning. “Now don’t get me wrong, I know you’re rich, obviously, but this guy?” He snorts, and takes up his place at the railing again, elbows on the freezing metal as he sweeps his gaze over the rooftops. “Obviously beyond. I swear, I went to the bathroom and there was a goddamn bidet. Who does that?” He glances at Jean, whose grin has been stretching wider and wider as Eren talked, and then it clicks, and Eren smacks his hand against his forehead as Jean cracks up. “This is your fucking house.”

“Technically my parents.” He says, once he’s halfway recovered from his laugher. 

Eren snorts. “God, that’s even worse.” Jean shrugs, grinning as smoke streams from his nostrils.

“I didn’t ask them to buy me it.” He says, and Eren groans.

“That is _so_ not the point, man.”

They get to talking, once Eren is recovered enough from the bombshell that it is _Jean_ who owns this fright of a house. They chat, leaned up against each other on that cold little balcony; the two of them in that good, drunken state of mind that they’re a little sloppy, a little overly familiar. Jean goes to the same university as Eren, as they discover. Studying Film to Eren’s Sports Science, and Eren wastes no time at all ragging on Jean for his film degree. He sways into Jean’s chest, liking the bite of challenge to their flirting, as Jean shoots back something about Sports Science being invented for idiots and failed medical students. He shoves him, and scoffs, and Jean goes easily; a teasing little grin blooming on his face.

“You really hate my flat?” He asks, voice dropped low as the night has dropped deeper and darker around them. The party still rages on inside; a thrumming, electronic backdrop to their talking. Eren tips his chin up, hating the height difference between them just as much as he loves it. He grins, and takes a draw on his cigarette. “You really prefer it down your ends?” Jean adds, poking at him, and his eyes are very heavy and dark beyond the frames of his glasses.

“I am indeed saying that.” Eren confirms, shuffling just the barest inch closer into the shelter of Jean’s body. He’s chilled to the bone, but not ready to admit it; unready to cut this moment short. There’s something hanging between them, building and growing and far too precious to pop before its time is up. 

Jean leans into Eren, then. His fingers find Eren’s forearm, his elbow braced on the cold-and-getting-colder railing. “Well you haven’t even seen the whole place.” He murmurs, brow arching as he pulls a face, a fake grimace. “So you can’t really say you hate it yet.”  
Eren grins, not even trying to play coy as he realises what Jean is doing. It’s intoxicating, to have the full force of Jean’s gaze on him like this, four beers deep and pleasantly warm all over. His fingers twitch, an odd yearning rising inside him. He wants, he _wants_ , and he doesn’t have the patience to play along with Jean’s little game because he’s cold, and he’s drunk, and the thrill of Jean’s attention hasn’t ebbed by even a tiny amount since he had first spotted him through the dancing neon lights indoors.

“Do you know how many house tours I’ve been on that have all conveniently ended up in the bedroom?” He asks, and he and Jean are so close now that he supposes he’d be embarrassed, if he was sober. Now all he can focus on is the smell of that peppery, musky cologne, and Jean’s long fingers wrapped around his forearm. Jean’s flat is one floor. Eren can see right through him. The thrill of the chase is a live wire in his chest.

“I wouldn’t like to know.” Jean mutters, with a grin that Eren returns, and then he’s following him as they slip back inside, into the warmth and the wall of noise that awaits.

In a move that Eren respects, they don’t linger in the main room of the flat; instead making a beeline for the back, down a narrow little corridor with a door at the end which opens out into Jean’s bedroom. Eren’s always appreciated transparency in his men, after all. He watches Jean pace over to the window, his boots making sharp, purposeful noises on the hardwood floor. He perches on the windowsill, and Eren lingers by the door, unable to tear his eyes away from the long, clean line of him. The way the street lamp outside the window is catching him in its diffuse orange glow; the side of his face, those high, sharp cheekbones. It’s quieter in the back of the house. Eren isn’t sure he prefers it or not. His fingers are tingling, and whether it’s from the blood returning to them or from anticipation, he doesn’t have a clue. 

He flicks on Jean’s desk lamp, and the dark room comes alive in the yellow glow. 

“You done showing me?” He asks, not looking at Jean as he wanders further into the room. He doesn’t have to look at him; Eren can feel the weight of his gaze on him like a physical thing. That same want as before is burning low in his gut, but the part of him that loves the anticipation, the build up, has him not giving into it. 

He hears Jean snort, and shift, the rustle of his clothes. “Are you done looking?” There’s the sudden staccato sound of high heels on wood floor through the door, and they both freeze and turn towards the noise. There’s a few beats of silence, and then a woman’s laugh, and the sounds of her shoes recede. Eren can feel the music coming up through the floor; he runs a hand over the wood of Jean’s desk on his meandering path over to where Jean is perched, grinning and waiting for him, long legs stretched out into the room. 

The same shitty minimal theme has carried over to Jean’s room, but for a few exceptions that Eren finds equal parts charming and intriguing. There’s a violin case perched in the corner, and a stack of music books jammed haphazardly into the small bookcase there, as though Jean had done some last minute tidying up. A wilting ficus towers in one corner of the room; winter-sick and sad. His bedside table holds an overflowing ashtray, a stack of notebooks, and - Eren grins when he sees it - a well-loved teddy that looks as old as the two of them. Eren points.

“Yours?” He glances at Jean, who has his hand over his face. The attraction in his stomach settles, and warms. “’S cute.”

“Shuddup.” Jean mutters, and his cheeks are pink when he lowers his hand, letting it twist with the other one between his knees. He sets his jaw, and Eren grins, closing that last couple feet between them. The bed is a distraction behind him, huge and tempting and soft-looking. 

“Are you gonna kiss me, or what?” He murmurs, and enjoys the little flash of surprise that flits over Jean’s face. He’s taller than him, from Jean’s seat on the windowsill, and Eren finds he likes that as he nudges Jean’s knee with his own before stepping between his legs. The party roars away behind the closed door. 

It’s very easy to bend down into that barest space left between them, his hand settling on the sharp line of Jean’s jaw just as Jean does the same; tilting his head up as his hands move to clutch at the sill. No hesitation; their noses bump, and Eren huffs on a laugh just as Jean captures his lips in a firm, very deliberate kiss. Eren’s fingers tighten on his face, thumbs dipping into the hollow behind Jean’s ears as he pulls him ever closer, deepening the kiss. It’s tender, and wanting, those emotions that have been stewing between them since they had locked eyes earlier finally having a place to be channelled. A little dirty, as Jean bites at Eren’s lip and uses the moan it makes spill from him to roll his tongue over the spot he’d just bit. Their tongues touch, and Jean makes a small, helpless noise in the back of his throat. Eren is gripping him so hard he feels like it may bruise. Part of him wants it to. He wants to leave a mark, a reminder for this rich boy he thought he’d never have. And now, here, in this lamplit room with Jean sighing and soft against his mouth, Eren has him all to himself. The thought makes him feel like he has fangs, makes him feel hungry and turned on and mesmerised by the sight of him as he leans back to look at him, to check that this is real.

Jean’s rumpled and red-mouthed, gorgeous by the low light, eyes dark and heavy in his face as he swipes his thumb over his mouth, waiting. Eren’s hands in his hair has got it standing on end, tousled and just right, backlit angelic by the street lamp outside. Eren takes a step back, and then another, a grin tilting his mouth lopsided as he takes Jean in. Those long legs, his knees knocked apart, thighs spread. He can feel his grin sharpen just as Jean stands, and then his palms are pressing hard on Eren’s chest, and he’s fighting his way out of his coat, Mikasa’s coat, as Jean tugs on them to help as he backs him up towards the bed in one breathless, desperate rush.

“You’re fucking gorgeous.” Jean bites out, hand sliding home to anchor into Eren’s hair as his other grips hard at his hip. Eren is still grinning, the kick of the chase still thrumming under his skin, merging intoxicating with the desire that Jean’s mouth, his legs, his tongue, has lit inside of him. They finally wrestle the two layers of coats from him, and then the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he’s down; Jean joining him a second later as he slings a leg over Eren’s thighs and leans down to catch his lips again. It doesn’t take the build up that their kissing at the window needed. Jean clutches at Eren’s hair, kisses turning heated and sloppy as Eren moans into the contact. They tangle up together; Eren’s hands catching on Jean’s ass, his waist, tugging at his shirt until it comes free from his trousers and he can touch his still-chilly hands to Jean’s skin. He hisses, and pulls back. “Fuck, you’re cold.”

Eren bares his teeth at him, his pulse rushing in his ears as he splays his fingers across the smooth skin of Jean’s belly. “Warm me up then.”

Jean scoffs at him, but kisses him again despite it, and Eren’s breath catches on a whine in the back of his throat as Jean shifts as he can feel him hard against his hip-

“ _Hey!_ ” Someone yells, and there comes a loud banging on the door as Eren and Jean spring apart, matching expressions of pure surprised bemusement on their faces. As one, they whip their heads around to the door, frozen. Eren can still feel Jean’s dick hard and pressed up against him, though he supposes he’s probably flagging now from their rude interruption. 

“Fuck off?” Jean calls out, unsure, and Eren snorts, hands going back to their important task of unbuttoning the fly of Jean’s trousers. Jean hesitates, and then relents; thumbs smoothing down over Eren’s temples as he leans down to kiss him again. Slower, near-tender, getting them both worked up again as Eren slides his hand between his legs, grinning at the shuddery little moan the movement pulls out of him.

“Like that?” He mutters, just as another round of banging from the other side of the door splits the atmosphere of the room and he jumps, knocking their foreheads together with a solid noise. “Fuck!”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Jean mutters, clutching his head as they roll apart, squinting at him as someone pounds on the door again. “Eren, what the fuck?”

“I got _startled_.” He cries, rubbing at his own head as he throws a glare towards the door. “What d’you want?” He calls.

“Eren?”

The voice is familiar, even through the drum and bass still making a racket through the door. He rolls his eyes, and climbs down off the bed. “It’s my sister.” He says to Jean, by way of explanation, though he looks as lost as he had before; rumpled, well-kissed with his trousers undone and an expression of true bewilderment on his face.

“So?” He asks, and Eren just rolls his eyes again, pacing to the door and opening it to find a very annoyed Mikasa standing on the threshold. The blonde girl is standing a foot back, arms crossed and cool blue eyes turned disinterestedly on Eren. Belatedly, he realises just what a state he must look, and runs a hand over his hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down.

“Mikasa.” He says, and clears his throat. “H-”

“Eren.” She says, and he shuts up. “I’ve been looking for you.” Eren winces at the steely tone in her voice, and then that turns to a grimace as her eyes shift to direct her glare over his shoulder. Her scowl deepens. “Jean? What the fuck?”

The next ten minutes devolve into a mess of stuttered half-explanations and sheepish looks thrown between Eren and Jean as Mikasa has a go at them both. First Jean, who she apparently knows pretty well, considering how she’s been _apparently_ warning him off Eren for months. The irony of fact that they’ve both been mooning over each other for months without the knowledge of the other is not lost on Eren. Sneakily, he raises his eyebrows at Jean, who isn’t so cowed by Mikasa’s telling off that he can’t respond with a wink.

Mikasa, who catches him, scowls, and then the next thing Eren knows he’s walking home with his head hanging; trailing behind Mikasa and the blonde, who had introduced herself as Annie seemingly just to fill the silence. Eren can still smell Jean’s cologne in his nose, and a tight burst of anger rips through him as he takes stock of the situation. So Mikasa is choosing who he can get with now? He walks a little faster to catch up with her and Annie, coming up to her side with his argument all set out and ready, boiling in his chest, and just as he opens his mouth she cuts him off.

“Eren,” She says, voice muffled behind her scarf. “Grow up. I’ll give you his number.”

Eren stammers, thrown off by the sudden change of heart, and Mikasa rolls her eyes at him. He thinks he can detect a hint of a smile behind her scarf, and he speeds up again to walk by her side, his surprise having slowed him down. “What?”

She rolls her eyes, and bumps her elbow to his. “Should’ve known you’d be into him.” She says, and Eren can see her begrudging grin for real now. He can’t help but mirror it.

——

The next morning, he texts Jean; overeager, perhaps, but Eren has never been one to play it particularly cool. When Jean doesn’t respond immediately, Eren begins the long process of regretting that same inability to play it cool. He showers, to take his mind off it, vacuums the entire flat, bothers Armin for long enough that he banishes him to go do laundry. Wastes so much of the day that he half-forgets about his early morning text until he returns to his phone around dinnertime to find a text waiting for him, hours old. Nervous, Eren unlocks his phone, anticipation ratcheting higher and higher in his chest as he opens his messages app, and reads. 

Simple, straight-forward. _Wanna pick up where we left off?_ Eren can’t suppress the grin that breaks out over his face at the sight of it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! it's been a LONG time since i've written erejean, it was so fun :~)
> 
> title from &run by sir sly
> 
> check out my [tumblr](http://getmean.tumblr.com/post/183105689859/hey-guys-so-as-promised-im-opening) if you're interested!


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